


Made New

by tielan



Category: Firefly
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Female Friendship, Gen, Grieving, Post-Movie, Questions, Sadness, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That which is made new is never exactly the same as the old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made New

The handle of the brush is wood, old and smooth from the grip of innumerable fingers. She dips the tip of the brush in the pot and wipes the excess on the rim of the tin with delicate care.

Then she starts repainting the yellow-gold inner circle.

\--

Sleep is a fretful state.

Her slumbering mind replays the memory of the Reavers scrabbling at the barriers of the complex, of the woman who wept as she recorded the message and died in the telling, of the dessicated bodies of the population who died, serene and uncaring of their fate while their fellows took to the stars and began a slaughter.

Waking is no pleasure either.

Inara once heard it said that the conscious mind was nothing more than the surface the soul put up to cover over the horrors of the subconscious. Then, she just nodded, silently disagreeing.

She’s not sure she has it in her to disagree anymore.

\--

Painting has a rhythm, or so she’s always found, whether she’s doing calligraphy or artwork. There is a measured beat to the upstroke and downstroke, a heartbeat that pulses and occasionally stutters and swirls as she dabs paint into the areas where her brush has already outlined.

Slowly, she covers over the scraped and faded tints of the old, battered paint job.

\--

Hot water splashes into the teapot, and Inara fills it nearly full.

The kitchen is large and dark and empty around her, an eerie silence that unnerves her.

Serenity is rarely silent. Usually, she hums with the noise of the engines, the constant whisper of life support, the gravity generators grumbling deep in her keel. Even when she’s in atmo, the docks where she rests are full of noises - the life-support, the people walking through the docks, the clatter and chatter of planetside life, or the whirring engines of other ships as they take-off and land.

She is silent now.

Almost.

As Inara puts the kettle away, she hears someone moving from the bridge to the kitchen. The footsteps are quiet and firm, the easy stride of someone who knows the ship and their way through it, but who is being considerate of others sleeping.

Zoë pushes open the door between the bridge passage and the kitchen and pauses when she sees Inara. “Can’t sleep?”

“Restless,” Inara answers. Tact keeps her from asking the question she’d like to ask; pride would keep Zoë from answering it the way it should be answered. “Would you like some tea?”

\--

She finds the painting soothing, an act to occupy her body which lets her mind roam free. Those who think her job allows her to disengage her mind while making love don’t understand the first thing about her work. The reason a Companion is free to choose her clients is because sex is of mind and body and heart, all united as one in the act of passion.

Painting is not an act of passion, but an act of mindless precision. It’s a nice change.

\--

The shuttle is still known as ‘Inara’s shuttle’ for all that she vacated it months ago. Only a little cleaning up was needed to make it habitable again. It’s not as luxurious as it used to be, but it’s comfortable enough.

Inara’s not sure she can remember if Zoë ever entered her shuttle before. The crew were allowed in by invite only; Mal was the only one to blatantly ignore that rule. Even Jayne respected her space; only Serenity’s captain tried her patience, time after time after time.

She pours the tea and the scent of jasmine flows through the room.

They drink in silence. Inara might make small talk for a client, but Zoë is neither a client, nor someone who needs to make small talk.

Especially not now.

Zoë sets down her cup. “Have you considered what you’ll do when we get back to the Core worlds?”

“Not yet.” Her belief in the Alliance has been shaken, her trust in them misplaced. And when she left the Companion training house with Mal, she became a fugitive against the government she’d endorsed.

Inara’s not sure where she fits in the new world Mal Reynolds created.

\--

The outer circle is orange, and she paints it with greater care, dabbing paint around the edges of the calligraphic characters so she has a guideline to follow for the next stage. Bristles slip and slide, not quite adhering to their painted fellows, occasionally leaving a slight smear where none should be.

Like painting, life is never as neat as it should be.

\--

“Do you know what Mal has planned once Serenity is fixed?”

Mal is a safe topic between the two women. Inara can keep a professional distance from him - mostly, and for Zoë there is only a professional distance.

“He hasn’t said yet,” Zoë says. “Probably back to business as usual.”

In spite of her easy words, there’s a sobriety in her voice. Each woman is aware that it won’t be ‘back to business as usual’ at all. Too many of their contacts are dead, care of the operative, and Wash won’t be flying _Serenity_ out of atmo and into space like before.

Wash won’t be going into space ever again.

Although she knows it weighs on the other woman, Inara feels no need to make Zoë speak of what she’s lost. Zoë is a private woman, her grief will be private, too.

“There’s a ‘usual’ for Mal?” Inara knows she’s lightening the mood, but focusing on Mal gives Zoë a chance to gain a moment of emotional privacy.

“Captain usually seems to be in trouble of some kind,” Zoë admits with her dry humour. “That’s usual.”

Inara’s mouth curves over her cup of tea. “It seems to be a gift of his.”

\--

The calligraphic characters are a darker red - blood-red. Inara uses the paint leftover from their foray into Reaver territory and can’t help thinking of Miranda and the birth of the Reavers. It sickens her to realise that the Alliance government didn’t just want to control governments that ruled people, but wanted to control people - to make them into what they thought they should be. And then when it failed - spectacularly - they covered it up.

Slowly, blood-red paint covers the battered metal surface, spelling out the name of the ship in calligraphy: _Serenity._

\--

“Kaylee and the Doc shared quarters tonight,” Zoë says.

A delighted smile tickles Inara’s mouth. “Really?”

“Uhuh. Way I heard it, River kicked him out.” Dark eyes twinkle at Inara, who twinkles right back.

The burgeoning romance between Kaylee and Simon Tam brought a lot of amusement to the crew when the young Doctor first arrived on the ship. Then, Simon had his sister to care for. Now, it seems River’s stable - or as much as any young woman who’s a reader can be considered stable - and growing up.

At least two people are unabashedly happy right now. Well, other than Jayne, who possesses the fortunate skill of being oblivious to just about anything and everything that doesn’t involve the preservation of his skin and what he wants.

“Is it that she wants some privacy of her own, or just giving her brother a push?”

Zoë smiles. “Probably both. Can’t be easy being a reader in close quarters.” And _Serenity_ is definitely close quarters.

Their conversation is an opportunity to focus on people other than themselves, to give them time to cover over their wounds until they’ve healed as much as these things do.

\--

Once the previous layer has dried, Inara paints the name of the ship in white on top of the two circles and the calligraphic denotation. A bit of creative smudging makes it look like the name is floating above the circles and then she’s done.

The paint doesn’t quite match the old colours, and the flakes of the previous paint-job are visible against the rust-pitted exterior of the ship, but what is made new is never exactly the same as the old.


End file.
